The Last White House at the End of the Row of White Houses

By Michael e. Casteels

The poems in The Last White House at the End of the Row of White Houses
teem with delightful and confusing life, from workhorses and dinosaurs
to wolves and kings. Alternately spare and lush, surreal and precise,
these poems work their way under the skin to sing gorgeous songs to the
heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Invisible Publishing
• Release date: Oct 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781926743820

Michael e. Casteels

Michael e. Casteels is the author of over a dozen chapbooks of poetry. In 2012, he was nominated for The Premier’s Awards for Excellence in the Arts, an emerging artist award. He lives in Kingston, where he runs Puddles of Sky Press.

Book preview

I

The moths settle on the windowpane:

small pale telegrams from the world.

— Tomas Tranströmer

House of Sticks

I open the door and I am greeted by a wolf.

The wolf opens its jaws, shows off my half-eaten grandmother.

Grandmother opens her hands, reveals a blue egg.

The egg hatches. I step out and can hardly believe my eyes.

The Same Old Story

Once Upon a Time involves a horse. It involves

a heralding trumpet, a voice catapulting over palisades.

Once Upon a Time involves the last Tasmanian tiger

seeking refuge in a laundromat. It involves a punching bag

thrashing in its sleep. Once Upon a Time involves

purple loosestrife swashbuckling in the swale. It involves

the estuary ablitz with fledglings. Once Upon a Time

involves a pigeon and genie. It involves a goldfinch

made of gold, a world made of crumbs, a broom swooping

into the cellar. Once Upon a Time involves wild dogs

carousing among wildflowers. It involves the detective’s

hunch, the poltergeist in the cathedral. Once Upon a Time

involves a fox curled in its den by the meadow. It involves

a fox curled inside this fox’s womb. Once Upon a Time involves

an umbrella adrift at sea. It involves a bowling ball hurtling

through outer space, a Zamboni constellating into the zodiac.

For the Price of a Quarter

On this side of the river the horses walk freely among us. You can see them trotting through city parks, or wandering downtown, drinking from fountains or staring into storefront windows. Last night I saw one at the movie theatre, watching a film. In one particularly harrowing scene a horse was pulling a wagonload of dead horses uphill in the rain. An evil-faced man barked orders and cracked a whip at the horse’s flank. The horse kept slipping backwards, but dug its hooves in deeper and tried again. After the show I saw that same horse, the movie-going one, wandering the streets alone, its humungous head hung low. As it passed by the supermarket it stopped and gazed at a coin-operated kiddie-ride: a horse suspended in mid-gallop, paint flaking from its side, garbage cluttering its base. The horse sighed deeply and continued on, hooves clomping into the night. When the horse was out of sight, I approached the ride and slipped in a quarter. I climbed into the saddle and gripped the reins tightly. As music crackled from weathered speakers and the horse began surging forward I thought, So this is what it feels like. It